I may be hypoglycemic.

Before this moment in time, was I actually ever real?

When I write about fictional characters, they are almost exclusively two dimensional. Is that because I have spent most of my life being devoid of anything besides physical matter and the most superficial understanding of myself?

All my complexities seem so well structured and perfectly written out, now.

Before this, I regretted so many of my own personal decisions.

Now I don't regret anything. And it is so interesting to know that I can rely on myself to actually care about me. Is that why I'm not able to cry? Because I know that none of this is my fault?

And even though people may question my behavior, I believe 100% in everything I do. And it is hard to be this different, this unique, this extraordinary. But it is worth it. What people told me I should be when I was little was simply unattainable. My mind was filled with expectations I could never reach. And goals that I never wanted for myself.

I hurt a lot of people trying to find ways to become that "other" person that had been perfectly laid out for me long before I was born. But I especially hurt myself.

Yet I wouldn't change the hell I had to walk through to get here. There is not always beauty after pain; so in this way I am incredibly fortunate. And I am humbled by whatever cosmic deals had to be struck to get me here. Chicago had to be burned to the ground to become the greatness it is today.

And so now when I look at myself I see the realness that is me. There are no delusions that I could be smarter or prettier or more loved. I am simply me but I am not simple. I no longer fight against myself. I only fight against the world.

So when I get to heaven, will I not be seated at the highest table?

Of course this is my 500th post. Of course it is.

Actually I think the coolest thing about this is that songs I listened to in high school when I was really depressed now actually make more sense. Like, I've felt enough emotions to understand what lyrics like this mean:

"when you wanted blood i cut my veins
and when you wanted love i bled myself again
now that i've had my fill of you i'll give you up forever
and if i go far away i know you'll
you'll find another slave."

Which is hilarious. Because that is really depressing. Hmmm....  

"I gave you everything
but then you wanted more...
more...
more."

I miss my Xanga. Damn. High schooler Elora was an idiot, an emotionally stunted/uncontrollable crazy person. Twenty-something Elora is a cool, emotionally stunted yet understanding and ultimately reasonable person.

But both Eloras have a profound love of Audioslave's self titled album released in 2002.

Fuck. I'm pretty cool.

Hey Look! It's Over. Bummer. GG No RE

Well now I feel like vomiting emotions.

So that's new.

I like how my experience of human feelings occurs incredibly slowly and I have no idea how to handle them when they arise. Like the feeling of wanting to vomit. Everywhere.

Hmmmm.... the only plusses to this whole campaign are that I'm confident I now know how to differentiate between love and obsession (did you know those are two different feelings?! I didn't!) and the fact that I haven't cried is a pretty good sign that I must really like myself as a person.

The only thing that really bothers me now is the fact that 1) "It wasn't meant for them" as in it wasn't meant for me and I knew it at the time and I knew it couldn't have been but I was also hoping that it hadn't been for anyone else but it was and that person was not me and why couldn't it have been me and am I sure I'm perfect? Yes I am. I am sure that I wouldn't change this and I don't think I can but still and why oh why you were going to lose so very very long ago just give up okay fine you know I hate you right and I'm all like, well, sweet sweet innocent Elora, everything's going to work out fine kiddette..... and 2) I can't believe that someone else is going to get lifted up and out of the world of depression while I have to stay here. Fuckin' why do white men have it so easy?

Regardless, Futurama, once again provides insight on this topic, and I still feel like I win:

Fry: "So, Leela, do you wanna be like us? Or do you wanna be like Adlai with no severe mental or social problems whatsoever?"

I may be a ridiculous jumble of emotions and behaviors that when added together create a semi-functional mess of a human being. But I think that's awesome. And I can't understand why anyone wouldn't want that. You only live once. I don't see why anyone would actively choose to be normal. You'll just die earlier. I mean, you won't actually die earlier, but your life will pass more rapidly before your eyes, because you will literally be boring as fuck. 

Fuck.

I have really high demands.

Fuck.

People are boring.

This is why I'm a writer. This is why I don't spend most of my time in the real world. This is why my daydreams are more vivid than my actual life. This is why the most passionate things I've ever written were for people who don't exist. And this is why, this is why, this is why I'm hot. 

Regardless, still really feel like vomiting. Which is so COOL! Because it's so WEIRD! AH! Elora. Your body and your mind... are just really... really... *blech*.

I'm still waiting on you to one day... realize... that this would have been.... and then you will cry first. And I will win. Because there are always winners and losers and I am no longer capable of losing, apparently. 

Questions I have asked Google:

"can you have more than 2 alcoholic drinks a day if you start in the morning?"

And still nothing helpful pops up. Although I have learned that if you don't drink two days in a row, you can't go through alcohol withdrawal. Which I suppose is good to know (although I don't believe it).

I have drank more than a bottle of wine in the last two days. By myself. I haven't woken up with any hangovers. I wonder if this is just the "holiday spirit." Regardless, it's pretty ominous.

Sadder still is the realization that I probably wouldn't be drinking this much wine if I had a brita filter, another source of clean (not tap) water, or diet coke. I only have orange juice in my fridge, and as a diabetic, I'm opposed to drinking something with that much sugar in it.

I'm drinking wine because I'm thirsty.

If you ever doubted it: I am a really dumb human being.

No but seriously. I have Wernicke's.

Last night I had drinks. Several, actually. Regardless, when I made it home, I found that I felt like writing. So I did write. Drinking, as it turns out, is a boon for my novel writing. So the phrase: "Write Drunk, Edit Sober" is incredibly accurate.

I managed to dock over a thousand words before I fell asleep.

Reviewing those words tonight, it has become apparent: I have drunk Wernicke's.

The writing is amazing in all the ways my writing is usually good. Everything sounds amazing. Although my content is sometimes incredibly crappy, prose is something that I strive for. Of the very few things I am particular about, the way a sentence is worded and read is near the top of such a hypothetical list (probably next to "not having to walk behind slow people, ever" and "making sure all my groceries are aligned orthogonally to each other when I put them on the check-out conveyor belt"). 

So it turns out I can still do that while drunk. Here are some random sentences (do they make sense? If no, do they at least sound pretty? And regardless, what do you think I was actually trying to say?):

"...any attempt to talk to her ended in her inevitable break down and evasion out and away from her metaphorical confinement..."

Either way, cutting into the pineapple proved a productive venture. 

Among his things was a long list of other things (this is my favorite paragraph by far, because the word "thing" comprises 4% of all words written)

If this island was the physical location of nothingness, then it was also the intellectual center of the goddamn universe. 

For these reasons, I assumed that Tom was no longer existing--breathing, sleeping, moving, aging--in the context of the real world. And it was for these reasons that I accidentally found and then actively shot down Tom's spirit. 

I had wandered around the forest, empty handed with no intent of icing nothing for several hours. 

The birds of the forest were as loud as they had ever been, and I took each call as a whisper of encouragement (although sometimes I took this as a cheer, since parrots had proven time and time again to be quite helpful and supportive.)

"...we let the cognition of Tom's death permeate within us, strengthening our outer core."

Had we ever actually been friends? Or had that merely just been another fruit-leaf-tree syndrome, wherein higher environmental staged are infected with lower level pathogens, and then their response is viewed by a higher order? (okay NVM, this is my favorite paragraph, because what the fuck does this mean?!) 

The fact that she was able to make it to sleep on time was a partial benefit.